Page 80 of Riding the Sugar High

“Are you sure we should be doing this here? We don’t need another reason to be arrested.”

“Nobody will arrest you for smoking a joint, Lady Arson.”

Just like he told me to, I take a breath, and I don’t feel a thing at first. Then my throat starts to burn, and I bend to the side in a coughing fit.

“Yep. Okay. That’s normal.” Logan takes the joint and pats my back as I look down at the concrete steps, trying to breathe through my nose.

“Oh, this is so gross,” I croak before I cough some more. There’s a weird taste in my mouth, and smacking my lips, I grimace. “It’s like I’ve sucked on musk.”

He snorts out a laugh, choking on the smoke just like I did, and even as he tears up, he throws an amused look at me. “It gets better.”

“Does it?” I tilt my head. I don’t feel anything. “My vision isn’t impaired, and my head doesn’t feel light. If this is being high, then it’s pretty disappointing.

“Well, you won’t feel anything with one drag. Plus, it takes time.”

I lunge for the joint again, but he holds it out of reach.

“Give it a minute.”

“Fine,” I sigh out. I think what happened at his parents’ place has more than a little to do with his wanting to smoke a joint tonight, but I’m not stupid enough to bring it up. He would have mentioned it himself if he’d wanted to talk about it, but I wonder if he’s thinking about Josie. I know I am.

From our vantage point on the steps, we have a perfect view of Main Street, lined with charming shops and bustling with activity. People pass by, their voices mingling with the distant hum of traffic as they go about their daily lives. It's a scene straight out of a postcard.

“Make a decision about Marisol?”

I swallow, bringing my hands together. “Oh, no. Not yet.”

“Seriously, Primrose? That apple stuff you made yesterday was great. Why don’t you send them that recipe?”

“Apple cider caramels,” I mumble. “I don’t know if it’s the right product. I can’t just base my decision on what I like—or what you like, for that matter. I have to consider things like sellability. Marketability. Trends, and?—”

“Primrose.” He fixes me with an intense glare. “You’re overthinking it. Believe in yourself and your product. If you like it, they will too.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they’ll tell you, set you on the right path, and you’ll try again.”

“Or they’ll think I’m an idiot who’s way in over her head, drop me and smash my dream with a metaphorical hammer.”

“Just like the FBI sending helicopters out here over the theft of two piglets and the stupidest arson in history,” he says softly, “you can add that to the list of things that are never going to happen.”

With his shoulder bumping against mine, he mutters, “Drama queen.”

When I bring a hand to my shoulders to release some of the tension entrapped in my muscles, he brings a hand to his manbun. “Is itthatimportant to you? Launching this...candy?”

Watching his free hair fall down his shoulders, I nod. “Yes, it is.”

“Why?”

I pause for a few long moments, looking for the right words. “Because I was denied candy most of my life.”

“How so?”

“My mom and I aren’t close. My dad and I aren’t either, but it’s my mom I have the most troubled relationship with. Honestly, she made most of my childhood unbearable, because she’s never been happy with the way I look.”

Though his jaw ticks, he doesn’t say a word.

“There’s this candy store back in Mayfield, in the mall closest to my parents’ place. But I was never allowed in, of course. With my body type, I couldn’t afford to eat candy, she said.” I smile, though the years of conflict and low self-esteem are heavy on my back. “One day, my mom and I had one of our fights. I was in high school. I jumped on a bus and went to the candy shop. Then I filled a bag with all the candy I could afford, sat by the bridge, and ate it. And the sugar high...” I remember that moment like it was yesterday. “It was incredible. Like getting a piece of my childhood back. All these colors, flavors and consistencies—and thesmell. There’s nothing like it.”

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